


Peekaboo

by Dee_Laundry



Series: My Fathers' Son [8]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Humor, Kid Fic, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-15
Updated: 2009-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blythe House has no problem whatsoever with pink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peekaboo

**Author's Note:**

> Direct sequel to [Luminescence](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/23371.html). Set in late December 2009, although this 'verse deviated from canon at about late season Three. This fic is a birthday present for the utterly awesome [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/). Thanks to [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/), [](http://perspi.livejournal.com/profile)[**perspi**](http://perspi.livejournal.com/), and [](http://bironic.livejournal.com/profile)[**bironic**](http://bironic.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

Wilson had seen people fall in love before, but none who’d fallen as hard and as fast as Blythe did for sixteen-week-old Jack.

She’d met him before, when he’d been just a week old, and Wilson was sure she’d started to love him then. However, being just a week old, he’d spent the entirety of her two-day visit alternately crying, sleeping, and filling his diaper with the most foul-smelling poo.

(“I thought newborns’ bowel movements weren’t supposed to smell,” Wilson’d said to House while changing the first of oh-so-many stinkbombs.

“Jack obviously didn’t get the memo,” House had replied, his nose clamped firmly shut between thumb and index finger knuckle.)

Newborn Jack had been mostly a loud, smelly lump. One Wilson had adored beyond all reason and sanity, but still, practically speaking, a lump.

Three-month-old – almost four-month-old – Jack was a _person_. Lively eyes, gorgeous gummy smile, purposeful actions. He would kick strongly with his legs just to make himself giggle, and would bat at almost anything that dangled near him. He could lay his head against your chest and burrow himself deep in your arms – and Wilson had seen the moment that Jack had burrowed right into Blythe’s heart.

Now, three days later, the two were practically inseparable. Only naptime and the occasional grumble for attention from her husband could keep Blythe from cuddling Jack at every moment.

Their favorite place to be together was the glider in Jack’s room. It was perfect for peekaboo with the throw blanket, or galloping Zizi the stuffed zebra across the terrain between the tips of Jack’s toes and his chin, or reading, or singing, or simply rocking while sharing stories of Greggy, the tyke Jack’s father used to be.

Wilson lurked nearby as unobtrusively as he could until House chased him away with a glare and a growl. “The only people who get to listen to that treacle are those who were there and those who won’t remember by the time they learn how to speak.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Wilson replied, earning a stern look from both House and John.

(His noise-activated voice recorder would fit tidily in the diaper stacker, anyway.)

Blythe and Jack’s second favorite place to commune together was the living room floor. There was the bouncer for getting out energy, the playmat with all the interesting sights and sounds, the “one thousand and one, good God, Wilson, are you ever going to stop shopping?” toys, and best of all, room for Jack to stretch out, roll, scoot, and wrap his grandmother even more tightly around his little finger.

The only downside to such an intense one-on-one affair – besides Wilson missing being the every-minute center of his baby’s world – was that it left the two House men up to their own devices. And those devices were the most antagonistic Wilson had ever had to spend time around.

He’d done his best to soothe and settle, but without Blythe’s calming presence, it was like holding back the tide with a teaspoon.

The three of them were standing in the kitchen, and the old familiar refrain of veiled barbs and peevishness was beginning again – and Blythe had taken Jack out for a walk – when Wilson finally, happily, hit upon a way to scatter the House men. All that was required was the utterance of one word.

“Ratatouille.”

“What in the world is that?” John asked, a sprinkling of confusion the only tidbit keeping his expression of distaste from being identical to his son’s.

“A stewed vegetable dish,” House supplied, with a shudder. “It’s French.”

The confusion dropped away and John turned to go. “Do you ever eat anything American?” he muttered.

“We had steak Thursday night,” House protested as he followed John out of the kitchen. “And Wilson risked the wrath of the rabbis to make you ham on Christmas Day.”

“Rabbis? Do you mean to say he’s gotten you anywhere near a house of worship? Hosanna, a miracle...”

John’s voice faded as father and son headed toward the other side of the house, and Wilson was at long last peacefully alone.

Fresh vegetables (flown in from South America rather than local, but good enough), his favorite knife, light instrumental music of the season playing on the radio (he’d promised his great-grandmother he’d never be swayed into singing Christmas songs, but he figured instrumental versions were safe), his son safe and happy – all was right with the world.

Wilson had just stopped himself from humming for the third time when he heard Blythe coming in the front door and House speaking to her.

“What’s that in Jack’s mouth?”

“I know you’ve been working full-time while James has been taking care of the baby, but you really ought to be able to identify a teething ring, dear.”

Wilson smirked. The familiar House-ian sarcasm was even more effective when wrapped in a soft, affectionate tone.

“I _know_ it’s a teething ring, but did you have to buy him one that was pink?”

“There are pink things throughout the world, and interacting with them won’t make Jack any less masculine.”

“Thought you pansies liked pink, anyway.”

“Rainbow, Dad. Get your stereotypes straight. No pun intended.”

“Stop,” Blythe chastised. “John, our son is not a pansy, and there is nothing wrong with pink, anyway. It’s a perfectly fine color.”

“Fine for a girl,” John said, “but why’d you buy it for Jack? Were you trying to prove a point?”

“Had I realized I needed to prove the point, I _would_ have bought it, but it turns out James is more enlightened than you two cavemen.”

 _What?_ Wilson thought.

“What?” House echoed.

“I didn’t buy the teething ring,” Blythe said. “It was already here in your house.”

A pink teething ring? Wilson hadn’t bought any pink teething rings.

“I got it out of the dishwasher.”

The dishwasher? Wilson looked over at the appliance. House had loaded and run it late last night, after –

“Oh,” he heard House say.

Wilson’s stomach lurched, and the blood rushed away from his face. “Get it out of the baby’s mouth!” he yelled, dropping his knife into a pile of vegetable pieces. “Get it out! Get it out!”

He slid into the living room, breathless, adrenaline-filled, to find House standing tall with Jack in his arms. Jack was grinning and drooling, gums gnawing at the pink ring.

“It’s clean,” House said, bouncing Jack a bit, and making no move to take the toy away from the baby. “Dishwasher sterilizes, you know.”

Wilson pulled the ring out of Jack’s mouth as quickly as he could, which provoked an immediate loud wail.

“Give it back to him,” House yelled over the noise.

“No!” Wilson clutched the ring between his palms, hoping that hiding it from Jack’s view would make the baby forget about it. “Let him chew on your knuckle.”

“Mom took the ring right out of the dishwasher; it’s cleaner than my hand.”

“No!” Wilson insisted, and Blythe finally saved them with a pacifier she’d found.

Taking Jack away from House, she asked, “What is the problem with the teething ring? James, you’re not disturbed that it’s pink, are you? You bought it.”

Heat was rising up his face. He was going to be as pink as the ring in a minute. “I didn’t buy it.” He wanted to make that perfectly clear. “And the color is fine.” John yanked the ring from Wilson’s hands before he could stop him. “But it’s, um...”

“It’s not a teething ring,” John said sternly, and glared at House, who had kicked back in the recliner. “Explain this.”

“I would,” House said nonchalantly, “but you said you’d tan my hide if I used those words around my mother.”

“John?” Blythe asked, turning her attention fully toward him. Wilson breathed a silent sigh of relief and sat on the arm of the recliner. John having to describe this served him right after that ‘pansy’ crack.

“It’s...” Watching him search for words was satisfying. “A man uses it when he’s... spending special time with his wife. Or, er, significant, um, special person,” he amended, waving at Wilson.

From her seat on the couch, Blythe frowned slightly in apparent confusion. “It’s a marital aid? That you chew on?”

“Not generally,” House contributed, “but I might _now_ , given that you brought up the –”

“House!” God, this was embarrassing enough without House’s comments.

John came to the rescue this time. “No, it’s... Well, a man uses it on his manhood, when he wants to, um, last longer with his special someone.”

“Oh.” Blythe tickled Jack’s chin and then looked back up at her husband. “That’s a cock ring?”

“Blythe!”

Wilson had never in his entire life imagined that a mother-equivalent of his would even know the phrase, much less say it out loud. He was mortified to the soles of his feet. “Oh, God, I’m going to die,” he moaned quietly, hiding behind his hand.

“Go, Mom,” House said, with what was no doubt a huge grin.

“Watch it, boy,” John warned, and Wilson ventured a peek around the living room.

Blythe continued blithely, “I’d only heard of strap and snap versions, not rubber.”

As John’s face turned red – and Wilson bet that his face looked similar – House noted, “It’s silicone. Dishwasher-safe, as you saw.”

“Oh, well, that would be more convenient, wouldn’t it? Easier to clean.”

That was when John broke. “Just how have you heard of this, Blythe?”

“Women talk, sweetheart.” Jack fidgeted on Blythe’s lap, so she pulled him up to a standing position and teased him with a silly face. “Just because you’ve always had good stamina doesn’t mean that some of the boys coming home didn’t have over-eager privates.”

Not an image Wilson needed. Nor House, apparently, as he blurted out, “I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh, God, I’m going to _die_ ,” Wilson groaned again. Parents, sex, parents talking about sex, parents talking about sex _with other parents_... No. It was so beyond what was good and decent in the world that he couldn’t even process it.

He saw Blythe shake her head, and smile at Jack’s delighted grin in response. Without taking her eyes off the baby, she said, “You’re the one who owns a cock ring, dear.”

“He bought it!” Wilson felt compelled to blurt.

“You wore it!” House retorted.

“There is a lady in the room!” John barked. “And a child, so you will both keep civil tongues.”

A whimper out of Jack, accompanied by quivering lips and troubled eyes, tugged at Wilson’s heart. He headed over to bring his son into his arms, but had to settle for sitting on the couch next to Jack and the grandma cuddling him.

“They’re being civil, John,” Blythe said soothingly, albeit with a flint of resolve in her gaze. “Though you’ve given us a good reminder to watch our tone around the baby. Anyway –” She turned with a smile and looked at first House and then Wilson. “It doesn’t matter who bought it or who wore it, as long as you both enjoy it. Sex is an important part of a relationship; you need to keep it fresh and fun.”

Wilson was back to being mortified; House looked caught between an eye roll and a gagging.

“Are you blushing?” Blythe asked. “A family is all about love, and physical intimacy between a couple is part of that. Very natural. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

“But you’re, you’re –” Wilson stammered. With a deep breath, he finally got it out: “You’re a mother!”

“And you’re a father,” she replied, passing Jack over to him. “Welcome to the club. Not much of a salary, and the hours are long, but the benefits are out of this world.”

Jack giggled and hid his face in Wilson’s chest, before glancing up again at Blythe playfully.

“Retirement plan’s pretty good, too,” John noted, and Blythe smiled.

 

 _For the curious, a completely safe for work[picture of the ring](http://tinypic.com/r/20zeipw/6), on tinypic.com; and a [post with pictures of the furnishings for Jack's room](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/227102.html)_.


End file.
